Note: read “Milking It For All It’s Worth” and “Chaos Is A Friend Of Mine” first."
In an alleyway in Manhattan, an unusual meeting is taking place, between Calvin Korkea and Marley, and Gaspode, the absurdly filthy street fluffy who gained the gifts of humanlike thought and speech from a magical mishap, and has every disease known to fluffykind.
And one known only to pregnant sheep.
Perhaps it’s the magic he gained his gifts from that keeps Gaspode alive against all odds.
Or perhaps he simply has Three Stooges Syndrome, and all of those diseases cancel each other out.
“So how are things going, Gaspode? Anything out of the ordinary?”
Gaspode shrugs.
“Guv, this is Manhattan. Ya run into a dozen fings outta the ordinary before lunch. But nah, nuffin stranger than a hobo fight in the subway. Except that chat with Chaos the other day. I dunno what he did with me cack, an’ I wasn’t gonna ask.”
"It am Kay-ohs, wuteba he did wif yu poopies pwob-ab-wee onwy make sens tu him.’
“Don’t get me wrong, Marley, I like the bloke. But 'e is a bit off.”
“He’s the anthropomorphic personification of chaos, what did you expect? Moving on, how are you liking your new room at the Foundation?”
“I’m not usin’ it a lot, guv. I ‘preciate it an’ all, but I’m used t’sleepin’ in the alleyway. An’ the silly buggers keep hintin’ that they’d very much like it if I took a baff. I said, an’ I quote…”
Gaspode switches to Fluffspeak, with an expression like he just tasted his own excrement.
“Yu fink stinkies wike dis jus happun awn dey own? Gaspode wowked fow Gaspode stinkies, yu knu. God, I don’t enjoy pretendin’ t’be a regular fluffy.”
Calvin smirks as only he can.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“What, an’ give up me biggest advantage? I got the Power, me. When you’se a fluffy what can speak Human, you gotta advantage o’er the average fluffy. And it’s gotten me a lotta free hot dogs, too.”
“Maybe we could put an air freshener on you. On another note: still don’t want a collar? We’ve got collars with our logos for our fluffy members.”
“Wif wunna doze, ev-wee-wun wiww knu dat yu am wif us.”
“Or we could hook you up with a nano suit. Yeah, we can do that now.”
Gaspode shrugs again.
“Clothing 'as never bin what ya might call a fingy of fluffy wossname.”
He scratches his ear with a marshmallow hoof.
“Two metasyntactic variables there. Sorry.”
“S’alright. Wait, where did you even learn those words?”
“From books, guv. I’m a lot more well read than I look. People in Manhattan throw all kindsa fings out, ya know. Last month, someone threw out a perfec’ly good dictionary. Most o’ me kind would just see it as somefing t’cack on, but not ol’ Gaspode, oh no. One fluffy’s trash is another fluffy’s treasure, mates. Didya know that the fear o’ long words is called hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia? Now that’s a bloody terrible joke, don’tcha fink?”
Calvin laughs.
“Yeah, I know, Doc told me. So back to the collars: you sure you don’t want one?”
“I’m not a big fan o’ collars. I like ya, guv, I’m happy to work for ya, but you ain’t me owner.”
Calvin smiles slyly.
“We could give you a blipper collar. Would make it a lot easier to get around town.”
“Wait, that’s a fing now?”
Marley nods.
“Mawwey nu weawwy nee wun, cuz Mawwey can tewe-powt.”
Gaspode sighs, feeling deeply impressed and a bit envious.
“Bloody ‘ell. Yer one lucky bloody fluffy, ya know that, Marley? You can’t drown, you can turn human, you can bleedin’ teleport… I feel sorry for any stupid buggers what tries to abuse you. I’ll fink about the blipper collar, Cal, but no promises.”
“Alright, alright. We’ll put one in your Foundation room, just in case you change your mind. You’ve gotta choose your own Way, Gaspode. Never forget that, dude. Your Way doesn’t choose you. You choose your Way. The ChaotiX is extremely diverse, so we do whatever we can to accommodate each member’s specific needs.”
“Sumtimes, wun size nu fit aww.”
“Exactly, Mar. Like, for Gyll and Dorz, we set up some waterworks at the School so they can get some dip.”
“Dat fown-ten wook weawwy nice.”
The fountain, just outside the front doors, has a statue of Pierre, founder of the School.
That was Calvin’s idea, and Pierre was touched.
Victor had a suggestion for a much ruder statue, but it was firmly vetoed.
“Yeah, it does. So do you get it, Gaspode? These things we’re offering you, you’re not obligated to use them. They’re just there if you need them.”
“Well, fanks, guv. I really do 'preciate it, it’s just a lot t’get used to.”
“Completely understandable. Alright, I think we’ve covered everything.”
Calvin smiles.
“How about we walk you home?”
Calvin and Marley follow Gaspode through alleyway after alleyway, until they reach Gaspode’s destination, where three homeless men have apparently been waiting for him, sitting around a trash can full of burning trash, sharing a tin can of hobo wine.
“You koff koff done already, Gaspode?”
“Bugrit! Millenium hand and shrimp!”
“He’s asking how the chat went.”
“Quack!”
And one duck, resting on one hobo’s head, of which the hobo is apparently unaware.
Gaspode laughs.
“It went great, mates. Good to have you back.”
Yes, those three are back on the streets.
They were institutionalised after Gaspode’s mishap, as it was before Umbra, and nobody believed three crazy homeless people who said their fluffy started talking like a human after eating a wizard’s trash.
But they were recently released. These days, the idea doesn’t seem that crazy.
They promptly threw their meds in the trash and sought out their former fluffy once again.
They adopted Gaspode as a foal, the sole survivor of his litter. The poor things woke up hugging a brick one morning, and never saw their parents again.
Or, well, ever, because that was the morning they opened their eyes for the first time.
And before Gaspode met his owners, he was resorting to milk banditry to survive. It got his siblings killed.
It’s a cold, lonely life for a fluffy all alone in Manhattan.
So Gaspode’s owners might be a trio of crazy, smelly hobos, but they gave him the first warm, loving home he ever knew.
On some nights since they parted ways, Gaspode cried himself to sleep, because he missed them that much.
He’s taking that secret to the grave.
Calvin waves awkwardly at the hobos.
“If you guys need any help, if you’re in trouble, don’t hesitate to call us. You’re ChaotiX allies now, and us ChaotiX will be damned if our friends and family get Gwen Stacy’d. Er, do you have phones?”
The coughing hobo jerks a thumb at the one who says “bugrit”, whose smell is so powerful that it might have a mind of its own.
“We did, but koff koff our foul ol’ friend here ate them.”
“Garn! Wrong side out, I told 'em. Bugrem!”
The hobo with a duck on his head chuckles.
“I suppose the Verizon guy should have asked you if you can taste him now.”
“Quack.”
“Bugrit.”
Calvin smirks.
“Well, I’ll just have to ask Val to invent a phone this dude can’t eat.”
“How did yu eben num fones?”
The foul-smelling hobo shrugs.
“Millenium hand and shrimp.”
“…Dat seem weh-jit.”
“Yeah, I’m not questioning it. We’ve gotta be off, Gaspode. Got a lot to do today. We need to see how Symona’s training is going.”
“Take cawe of yusewfs, otay?”
The hobo with a duck on his head offers Calvin the can.
“One for the road, Mr. Korkea?”
Calvin politely declines, as he’s learned not to try an unfamiliar beverage unless he knows exactly what’s in it.
“I’ll pass, dude. And please, call me Cal. Everyone does. Gaspode, we’ll see you later.”
“O’course, Cal. Me door’s always open, so t’speak. Tell yer family I said wotcher.”
Calvin nods, and he teleports out with Marley.
pop
pop
When they’re gone, Gaspode waddles over to his owners. The fire is slowly dying down, but there’s plenty of trash to burn in New York City.
“Ooh, toasty. Alright, mates. We’re four blokes with nuffin to lose an’ nowhere t’go but up in the ‘eart o’ the Big Rotten Apple. What’s next for us?”
“Lunch, I koff hack wheeze think.”
“As long as it ain’t ol’ boots in mud again, guv.”
“Bugrem!”
“I’ve got an inexplicable craving for Peking duck. I haven’t had it in years.”
“…Quack?”
Gaspode laughs, in a deliberately fake and annoying manner.
“Peking duck? Be real, guv. The ol’ boots are more likely. Unless you wanna cook that duck on yer 'ead.”
“What duck?”
“Quack!”
Then Gaspode remembers something, and smiles mischievously.
“Y’know, there’s a Five Guys not far from ‘ere, an’ they usually chuck out t’trash around this time o’day. If we’re quick, we can get there in time. Just let me do the talkin’, mates, an’ we’ll be eatin’ like bloody kings.”
The hobos get up, following Gaspode out of the alleyway.
He cracks a grin, murmuring softly to himself.
“Finally, fings are lookin’ up for ol’ Gaspode.”